The Brother Director smiled benignly at the young enthusiast.  “Brother Edouard is right,” he said.  “Poor Martin was to be compassioned.  None the less, my heart is touched for the girl.  In Banin’s trial it appeared that he maltreated her, and forced her to do what she did by blows.  They were really married.  Her neighbors gave Renee a name for gentleness and a good heart.  Poor thing!”

“And she never was found?” asked Abonus, eagerly.  He spoke very rarely.  He looked now at me as he spoke, and there was a strange, ungodly glitter in his eyes which made me shudder involuntarily.

“Never,” replied the Director, “although there is a reward, 5,000 francs, offered for her recovery.  Miserable child, who can tell what depths of suffering she may be in this moment?”

“It would be remarkable if she should be found now, after all this time,” said Abonus, sharply.  His wicked, squinting old eyes were still fastened upon me.  This time, as by a flash of eternal knowledge, I read their meaning, and felt the ground slipping from under me.

I shall never forget the night that followed.  I made no pretence of going to bed.  Edouard’s little dormitory was in another part of the house.  I went once to see him, but dared not knock, since Abonus was stirring about just across the hall, in his own den.  I scratched on a piece of paper “Fly!” in the dark, and pushed it under the door.  Then I returned to walk my chamber, chafing like a wild beast.  Ah, that night, that night!

With the first cock crow in the village below, long before the bell, I left my room.  I wanted air to breathe.  I passed Abonus on the broad stairway.  He strode up with unwonted vigor, bearing a heavy caldron of water as if it had been straw.  His gown was tumbled and dusty; his greasy rabat hung awry about his neck.  I had it in my head to speak with him, but could not.  So the early hours, with devotions which I went through in a dream, wore on in horrible suspense, and breakfast came.

We sat at the long table, five on a side, the Director—­looking red-eyed and weary from the evening’s unaccustomed dissipation—­sitting at the head.  Below us stood Brother Albert, reading from Tertullian in a dry, monotonous chant.  I recall, as I write, how I found a certain comfort in those splendid, sonorous Latin sentences, though I was conscious of not comprehending a word.  I dreaded the moment they should end.  Edouard sat beside me.  We had not exchanged a word during the morning.  How could I speak?  What should I say?  I was in a nervous flutter, like unto those who watch the final pinioning of a criminal whose guillotine is awaiting him.  I could not keep my eyes from the fair face beside me, with its delicately cut profile, made all the more cameo-like by its pallid whiteness.  The lips were tightly compressed.  I could see askant that the tiny nostrils were quivering with excitement.  All else was impassive on Edouard’s face.  We two sat waiting for the axe to fall.